Rage
by 1hellyeahz1
Summary: Arthur is 16 and has just been transferred to a tiny alternative high school. In doing so he is forced to give up the one thing in his life that has remained constant, question his life decisions, and confront realities he doesn't want to face. High School AU. Possible Slash
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

"_Dad, why is mom crying?" _

"_Because I made a bad mistake." _

"_What did you do?" _

"_..."_

"_Dad?" _

"_You'll understand when you're older..." _

There was soft light coming from Arthur's window on a warm spring day. Other then the single light bulb in the center of the square room that was currently turned off. The light should have made the walls turn a warm buttery color, but as they were nicotine stained from the previous occupants of the house they just turned an ugly yellow bile shade. Arthur glared at the walls and turned away from the light source, wishing he had curtains to block out the light.

Of course, they would cost too much. So would re-painting his walls. But his mothers daily shopping for beads and different crafts, that she swore she was planning to sell at their next garage sale or the yearly craft sale his grandparents' neighborhood put on, didn't cost nearly as much as a few yards of fabric or a bucket of paint.

Muttering to himself, Arthur sat up and dug an old battered racquetball and started his age old tradition of throwing it at his wall and catching it as it bounced back. It was therapeutic for him; at least until Ginny yelled at him to 'shove his ball up his ass' so she could listen to her music.

But the yelling could wait. For now all Arthur wanted to do was throw something. A familiar rage that was constantly there had decided it wanted to boil today, and consequently Arthur felt he would scream at the next person to snap at him. The rage, along with his social anxiety and people issues, boiled under the surface as Arthur pounded the abused wall with his racquetball, gradually releasing some steam.

Today he had learned that he was being transferred to a different school. A school for 'troubled teens' like him.

_Troubled teens, _He thought with a bitter sting, _I show them a troubled fucking teen._

The list of his offenses? Too long to count. Some of the more major ones were skipping school, beating up classmates, swearing at teachers, and failing freshman year along with half of his sophomore year. Arthur remembered the way his band teacher (the only class he hadn't failed in both years) had looked at him with disappointment in his eyes. _"You can do better then this," _He had told Arthur, _"I see you with your nose in a different book every day, and I know those are middle school or even high school level books! Your extraordinarily intelligent. You're cheating yourself by wasting it." _

It wasn't _fair_.

Arthur threw the racquetball so hard it left a dent in the cheap plaster that made his wall. He didn't try to catch it, leaving it to bounce off to the far left corner of his bile yellow colored room, next to his battered flute case covered in gum wrapper tin. When Arthur had just started in fifth grade band and Ginny was five ,he had taken to peeling foil of old gum wrappers that Ginny would stuff would stuff in his backpack when Arthur wasn't looking, instead of throwing them away.

He was being transferred at the start of fourth term.

Two days. The new term started on Monday. Today was Friday evening

The school he was being transferred to would have less then two hundred students.

No band.

Arthur got off his bed and picked up the flute case, opening it up carefully and gently tracing over the tarnished silver keys. He had been placed in first chair in the wind ensemble class that year. Last year he had been the _only _other freshman who had passed the wind ensemble tryouts; Amelia E. Jones was the second. Along with him there had been three sophomores, five juniors, and eight seniors who had passed the tryouts.

There were eight other flutists in wind ensemble. Amelia, a blonde haired and buxom sophomore would take his seat and Mr. Johnson would start teaching her piccolo. Her dream. Amelia loved the piccolo and the two of them had nearly lost their friendship over the contest for first flute. Eventually, Amelia had ceded with the promise that she would win next year. At the time Arthur had laughed it off and told her that she'd win only when pigs flew and the river Styx dried up, but now as Arthur looked down at the flute that he had played since the fifth grade, Arthur knew that her promise would be fulfilled. None of the current flutists in wind ensemble or in concert band could compare to the two prodigies who had competed with each since they met in middle school.

Arthur could still remember the day they met like it was yesterday. Amelia had flounced, _flounced, _into the tiny middle school band room on the first day of the seventh grade. Her twin brother, Alfred, had bounced in not long afterward, swinging a gigantic trumpet case and his cousin clinging shyly to his arm. Arthur almost pitied their terminally shy cousin who was so quiet and well behaved that he faded into the background and was almost never called on unless the teacher thought he was Alfred, goofing off again. He stopped the pity when he realized that the boy, Matthew wasn't really shy at all and used the invisibility he possessed to make as much mischief as his cousins.

Oddly enough, Alfred stopped seeing them halfway through his freshman year. There were rumors that they had been arrested for dealing heroin and cocaine. Arthur doubted these rumors as he could starkly remember that the duo hated those two drugs with a passion.

Gently, Arthur closed the case. Feeling his heart break he set it up at the top of his closet.

He probably wouldn't be in another band for a long time, and he couldn't bring himself to play it alone.

After he had put his flute away, Arthur leaned his back against the door to his room and slowly let himself fall to the floor. His heart hurt and the rage was back, screaming at him to throw something, to cry, to yell and shout and kick and punch; but he did nothing. He hugged his legs to his chest and made no noise except for his staggered breathing.

The one thing that he'd had to depend on for the past five and a half years was gone.

...

It was almost midnight when Arthur ventured out of his room and into the cluttered hallway of the old dilapidated house. He carefully stepped through a path that separated the plastic bins of old crafts projects that his mother had never finished. He glared at them. Since he and Ginny were the only ones who ever used the hallway anymore (his brothers had all graduated and left for college or moved out) they got stuck with the overflow.

The kitchen was a mess, as always. As quietly as he could Arthur tried to organize the piles of whatever his mother had stockpiled in the kitchen today and put away the leftovers of what she had cooked (warmed up) so they didn't become infested with bacteria. Guilt set in as he saw the remnants of the previously frozen fried fish and chips. While he was repeatedly reminded by Ginny that he burned whatever he cooked, at least he _tried_. Ginny deserved better then this. Better then him.

Maybe Patrick was right and Ginny would be better off living with him.

Shaking his head and shoving the negative thoughts down with the rage and anxiety and confusion, Arthur kept at his task of tidying the kitchen as well as he could. He piled the magazine in a neat stack and threw away the old letters. There was a pile of drawings that Ginny had stacked up on the table; Arthur took the nicest one and pinned it to the fridge, the rest he put on the desk in her room. He got the dishes cleaned and put away and by that time Arthur couldn't bring himself to start on the rest of disaster. So, he gulped down the rest of the chips from dinner and a bit of the now cold fish, put away the rest while trying not to look at the molded food in the fridge, and retreated to his bedroom for a few hours of sleep.

All the while, the mass of rage kept bubbling.

.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"_Hey, big brother?"_

"_Och... Yeah, squirt? Whadda ya want?" _

"_Will you sing me a lullaby?"_

"_Ya're eight years old! Why do ya want a lullaby?" _

"_Angus, please?" _

"_Och... fine..."_

"_..."_

"_..."_

"_Big brother?" _

"_Och..."_

"_We fight a lot, but you'll always be there for me, right?" _

"_Och... Arthur..."_

"_Angus...!"_

"_Yeah, I'll always be there for you squirt. You happy now?"_

"_Yes." _

"_Good. Now go to sleep, ya wee devil you!" _

…

Arthur's phone was cold against his ear as he dialed a number that he'd memorized almost three years ago. The day Angus left.

A phone number to his tiny studio apartment was all he'd left, alongside a note with instructions for Arthur to call him once a month.

Angus was his oldest brother, yet funnily enough was the last one to leave. Patrick moved out the day he turned eighteen, and Thomas, while a year younger then Arthur, was attending a private school in Wales on scholarship.

"Pick up, you wanker..." Arthur muttered to himself, pacing back and forth in the kitchen.

Finally, the phone clicked and Arthur heard the gravelly voice of his brother come up on the phone, _"Whadda ya want, ya bloody poof!" _

"What a polite way to greet your younger brother, Angus." Arthur replied, his voiced laced with sarcasm."

"_Och, like ya ever cared about that."_ Angus retorted. His voiced sounded tired, as if he had just woken up.

"Angus, it's 1:00 in the afternoon. Did you just wake up?"

"_Yeah... the phone actually woke me up. I'm takin' night shifts at the bar now." _

"_Angus! Whose's on the phone?" _

"..."

"_..."_

"Is this a bad time?"

"_No, one sec." _Arthur could here some muttered voices through the earpiece, and he bit his lip nervously. He'd never called Angus while he had a girl over. In fact, Arthur didn't think he'd ever even _seen _ Angus with a girl.

All of a sudden, Angus's gravelly voice came back on the phone, _"Sorry about that, lad. That was Mollie. Have I told you about her?" _

"No."

"_This Christmas, then. Well fly over and ya two can meet." _

"Okay."

There was a pregnant pause between the two, neither of them seemed to want to continue. _"So, how is _she._" _Angus asked, not saying a specific name

"Sorry?" Arthur asked, knowing full well who Angus was talking about.

"_Brittany, ya twit. Ya know who'm talkin' about."_

"Ah, yes. Mum's doing fine."

There was a scoff on the other end. Arthur swallowed a sigh. He only knew too well the tumultuous relationship his mother had with all her elder sons. She had always longed for a daughter, and viewed her sons as disappointments. Of course, after her husband (good for nothing, partying, drunk he was, Arthur secretly though) left her for a younger woman in _Italy _ten years ago, Brittany had sunk into a deep depression. Learning she was pregnant with the daughter she had always wanted had been the final straw.

Arthur had seen pictures of his mother as a college student that his grandparents had shown him during trips to his home country. The pictures were taken almost a year before she met Julius, Arthur's father. She had been so vibrant, so alive.

And a rebel; god, such a rebel. After she had gone off to school she had, much to her grandparents horror, left their church and joined a hippie group on the campus. They even had pictures of her with _dreadlocks_. And (oh, the horror) kissing a _girl_!

Arthur scoffed as he thought about how his grandparents had scorned his mother for, as they called it, her rebel phase. Phah! _As if, _he thought with a smirk. There was a reason he looked forward to spring every year. That was when his mother revitalized and came back to life. After Julius had left, Brittany in a fit of rage packed up her children and left to spend a few weeks with her hippie friends. Arthur could remember when he had last seen Brittany that alive.

It didn't mean he liked her friends, though. Their hair was... Ugh.

So, it had become a tradition. Every spring, while she didn't necessarily believe in the holiday, Brittany would leave town with her children and spend a week with her friends celebrating Beltane. She'd dance and laugh and sing by the fire, let her friends braid her hair, and watch as her boys (and one girl) run around wild as can be.

And for about a month afterwords, she'd be fine. There would be life in her eyes, she dance around the house just _singing._ She clean like she used to. Arthur remembered it was something she loved to do. She would scorn messes. And she loved to cook. _God, _her cooking. Arthur could just about taste his mother's pot roast.

She hadn't made since a spring five years ago.

But, alas, all good things would come to an end. As Spring came to a close, so would Brittany's good mood. She'd slip back into her depression and make a complete 180. She could never find the energy to do much more then sleep and go to work. Many times her children had to force her to eat. While Arthur and his siblings tried to keep the house clean, they also had schoolwork along with friends. Not only that, but Patrick, and by that time Angus as well, had jobs along with caring for their younger siblings.

For Patrick, it came to be too much. As soon as his eighteenth birthday came along he bolted. Angus stayed to help take care of his younger siblings, but when he was twenty-two their grandparents had told him about a friends offer for a job. Angus couldn't refuse. It'd mean a chance for him to go home to the place he'd been raised. Scotland. For Arthur it meant losing his older brother and taking the lead at only fifteen years old.

"_Arthur?"_

"Sorry?"

"_You disappeared for a minute on me, lad."_

"Sorry."

"_But again, how is Brittany doing?" _

Brittany. Angus had stopped calling her Mum or Mother when he was eighteen.

"Fine."

"_Okay."_

"She's picked up painting again."

"_What is she painting this time?"_

"Trees."

There was a another pause. The last time Brittany had started painting there had been sketchbooks and paper everywhere. The first time she had picked up painting, back when Julius was still around, she had kept everything in one room. Arthur was three at the time and he could sharply remember toddling into the brightly colored room and Brittany would smile, wide as ever, and hand him a paintbrush. She'd leave the room to fetch Thomas, who was just two, and the three of them would spend the day painting on whatever scratch paper they could get there hands on. When they'd stop for a snack she'd pick up their work and pin it to the wall.

The room was their very own art gallery.

Sometimes Julius would join them and his parents would paint together.

When Julius left Brittany tore those painting down and burned them.

"_Arthur,"_

"I'm here."

"_How's Ginny?"_

"Fine. She had an A in science."

"_Really?" _

"Yeah."

"_Cool."_

"..."

"_What about you?" _

"Me?" Arthur spluttered. He didn't want to talk about himself. To be honest, Arthur didn't want to talk at all.

"_Yes, ya twit. While you aren't the oldest in the house, you're probably the only one keepin' that house together. How are ya holdin' up?" _

Arthur ground his teeth together in frustration, a familiar boil starting in his gut. "I'm fine, for your information."

"_Damned a bheith agat, tá tú amadán stubborn! Don't ya be lyin' to me, Arthur Kirkland. I'm ya older brother, don't think I can't tell when ya're lyin'!" _

"Well, if you already knew I was a screw up why didn't you just say it?"

"_Oh yeah, I'd just call my brother and tell him that I knew he wasn't fine and we'd all be skippin' through a meadow and and singin' fairy songs while eating rainbows!" _

"And you wonder why I don't ell you about anything, you bloody wanker!"

"_Fuckin' poof!"_

"_Angus!" _

"..."

"_...Sorry Mollie..." _

A Quiet voice sharply scolded Angus through the phone and Arthur chuckled. "I never imagined you to get tied down, Angus."

"_Don't push it, bleedin' "_

"_Angus!" _Mollie scolded Angus again.

"_Sorry, Mollie!" _Despite himself, Arthur couldn't help but laugh. Angus had always gone for the more... aggressive women. While he never really dated throughout high school, he had certainly shown interest in some movie and tv stars. All of whom were tall, lean, and somewhat violent. Not to mention very successful. _"'Kay, listen Arthur, I've got to go. If you ever need me don't hesitate to call, will you?" _

Arthur breath caught in his throat. He wanted so badly to tell Angus about everything, _everything _that had happened since he left. But all he could croak out was and "Okay," And that was that.

"_Arthur..."_

There was a large armchair in Arthur's living room, and he sat down in it, feeling his straw colored hair whoosh up as the overstuffed chair hunched down as his weight was added suddenly. He curled up in a ball, wishing with everything he had that he could just _talk_. But the words wouldn't come. "I will," He promised Angus, but in his heart he knew it was a lie.

A click went off on the phone, but Arthur held it to his ear until the dial tone started.

Rage, confusion, with a mixture of shame and anxiety boiled inside of him and he curled up into a ball.

What was he going to do?


End file.
